


The Future's Uncertain (There's Only One Way and it's Down This Road)

by vamm_goda



Series: The Thing About Destiny [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 4 Things, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Colorado Avalanche, F/F, Rare Pairings, Women in the NHL, institutionalized sexism, title from a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: the four times Nick Holden almost gave up on hockey, and the five times hockey didn’t give up on her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: There are references to institutionalized misogyny as well as implied sexist language present.
> 
> This stemmed from one of the many conversations I have with Silver Spotted, where it tilted towards “what would happen in the career of a female grinder, someone who’s not top-line material but still made it into the NHL anyway?”
> 
> Nick Holden’s not _technically_ a grinder, but the idea fit into the larger 'verse's story arc and his career is circuitous enough on its own. So basically, here’s the little ways where being female might have changed Nick Holden’s experiences. Title from _Hero_ by Kid Kudi and Skylar Grey.
> 
> Most of my research came from [these](http://www.denverpost.com/avalanche/ci_25047721/avalanche-defenseman-nick-holden-wasnt-rush-play-nhl) [two](http://milehighsticking.com/2014/10/15/childlike-nick-holden-puck-personality/) articles, as well as the delightfully dooftastic interviews Holden gives. Anything not mentioned there is me making stuff up. 
> 
> I've been sitting on this forever, so posting it in parts to make myself finish (I hate unfinished things).

Have no fear of falling

It won't help you in the end

\-- Skylar Grey, _Hero_

\\\

“You’re gonna not want to talk to Nick,” Tiffany declares, sliding into her seat with absolute seriousness.

John Holden arches one brow at his youngest, then skims his eyes over to Nick, trying to sneak into the car with minimal fuss. Nick freezes, eyes flashing white around the pupil like _caught_.

“Is that right?” He doesn’t want to reward gossiping, but he’s intrigued anyway. This isn’t like Nick, who’s usually childlike and eager in a way that he hopes age will never erode.

“She says she’s done playing hockey,” Tiffany offers. Which makes John wonder how important they think hockey is to him, that this warrants such straight-faced seriousness, that Nick is so silent and mortified with that revelation.

“I said _after this year_ ,” Nick hisses, because her parents taught her better than to quit in the middle of the season. “But. Yeah.” She slumps into her seat, trying to look as small as possible.

“You wanna tell me why?” It’s not like they weren’t anticipating something like this; Nick’s focus on hockey has always been halfhearted at best, but it’s one thing to anticipate it and another to actually hear her _say_ that she’s done.

Nick shrugs again, eyes out the window. “I dunno. It’s just not fun, is all.”

“Some of the boys were making fun of her.”

There’s a yelp from the back seat. When John flicks his eyes back there Tiffany is rubbing her arm and Nick is staring out the window like the trees are personally offending her.

“‘s not a big deal,” Nick mumbles, shrugging again. “Just don’t feel like playing anymore.”

It’s still a pretty abrupt turnaround for her. John makes a mental note to look into this, but he lets Nick maintain her privacy until she’s ready to talk or he has reason to worry. And the important thing about Nick is that she’s a _good kid_ , it only takes her half a day before she finally spills to her mom, who looks less worried and more angry when she greets John at the door the next evening.

“They’re saying Nick’s never gonna make the NHL, so they don’t have to pass to her or play with her.” Lynda looks _incensed_ , the look of a mother about to go to war with the _universe_ if that’s what it takes to protect her child. “Because she’s a girl.”

It’s nothing they weren’t prepared for; Nick’s the only girl in her league and has been for most of her life. When she was young the other kids took no notice of the differences but unfortunately kids repeat what they hear, and John and Lynda have heard plenty themselves. They’ve heard it in the stands, from competitive parents convinced their little Orr was destined for greatness if only the coach didn’t waste so much time with that girl player, who didn’t realize that little girl player had parents who listened to _everything_.

He takes his time hanging up his coat to hide the clench in his fist. “Does her coach know?”

“Parts of it. The parts he’d have to be blind to miss. We’re going in early to speak with him on Wednesday.”

John takes a moment to appreciate being included in that ‘we’, even if he suspects it was reflexive. “What’d you tell Nick?”

“That we’re going to help make her comfortable. It's all we can do.” Lynda shrugs, ushering him to the stairs. “ _You_ get to do the hard part.”

Nick is in her room, headphones on and bopping along to pop radio while she does her homework. She doesn’t have it too loud – when he taps on her doorframe she takes them off, face falling even as she waves him in.

“This is about practice, isn’t it?” Nick spins her chair a few times while her dad settles on her bed. “It’s not a big deal. I just don’t . . . wanna play hockey anymore.”

“Your mom told me what the other kids were saying.”

“She said she would.” Nick’s fiddling with her headphones, picking at the soft foam ear pieces. She trails off, distracted by some other thoughts like she sometimes is.

“But. You love hockey.” She _does_ , he’s seen it in her face when she’s racing down the ice, the light in her eyes that she can’t fake. He can’t believe that she would fake it, even if it made her parents happy.

“I like the game parts.” Nick makes a face, the one he privately refers to as her _Lynda Face_ because she looks so much like her mother when she does it. “I don’t like the parts where they’re so . . .” She struggles for a word for a few seconds before she settles on one that she’s heard other people use. “So _intense_ about everything. They’re right, though. I’m never gonna play hockey for real.”

He touches her shoulder, prompting Nick to finally meet his gaze, eyes wide. “Who told you that?”

Nick bites her lip – she’s a team player, always has been, fiercely loyal even when she gets the short end of the deal. “There aren’t any girls in the NHL, so it’s not like I have anything I could really _do_ with it.”

And really, it’s their job to show her what options there are for her, and if Nick believes that the NHL is the only real hockey out there, if she thinks it’s the only reason to play, then they’ve failed her somewhere.

“There’s college,” he tells her, making it seem simple. “Lots of women do really good in college. And lots of women play just because they like hockey. You don’t have to be headed for the NHL to deserve a chance to enjoy playing.”

“I guess.” Nick’s very quiet, very unsure.

John has always known that he can’t protect his daughters from the world, but it never dawned on him how heart-breaking that would be until it happens. It makes him want to howl. “You know those kids are wrong, right? You can play hockey as long as you want, as long as you like it, because the only person you need to make happy is you.”

He taps her gently on the chest, right above her heart, and she gives him a sad little smile he’d give anything to never see again. “You don’t have to make the NHL. You just have to love what you’re doing enough to not let them stop you.”

Nick, by nature, is not a crier. Nick in the grips of emotion gets quietly contemplative, and she’s looking at her homework but she’s listening, which is everything he can hope for with her.

“It’s always gonna be your choice, Nick. But your mom and I would like it if you kept playing. You’re really good.” It’s true – Nick _stands out_ , even as the only girl playing in her league it’s clear that she’s got something going on. That’s why they placed her with that competitive league in the first place. Nick’s got something, something impressive that can take her places, if she’s allowed to see where those places are.

“You’re saying that because you’re my dad.” She blushes a little, ducking her head.

“I’m saying it because it’s true.” He palms at her hair, and he loves her so much his heart _burns_. “Just don’t make the decision until the end of the year, please?”

“Okay.” Nick goes back to her work, hunching over the math paper, the universal pre-teen gesture for ‘dismissed’.

John thinks he’s not supposed to hear the part where she mumbles “I’m not gonna change my mind,” as he ducks out of the room.

\\\

Nick’s coach has always seemed like a decent guy, but when they meet him before practice he’s also spectacularly unhelpful. He spends a lot of time talking about _earning playing time_ and _doing what’s best for the team_ , and looking at them like they’re demanding favoritism.

To be fair, he probably deals with those sorts of demands on a regular basis.

“We don’t want anyone to play favorites, we just want them to realize there’s not a damn thing wrong with Nick being a girl, and liking to play hockey. That she’s not less.”

There’s a serious meeting before practice the next day about teamwork, about bonding and doing right by the team. Then the team goes right back to pretending Nick is one huge black hole in the middle of the ice, a void that the puck has to be deflected around.

Nick throws herself at it, but there’s only so much she can do when the team’s playing keep-away from her _and_ the opposing squad. They’ve gotten too old for equal play rules to be in effect, so she spends most of her time on the bench or chasing her d-partner down. Nick goes from hurt to puzzled as the season progresses; she’s honestly confused by the competitive barbs directed at her from her own teammates, and more and more she comes in from practice with clean gear and a thoughtful expression on her face.

By January Nick’s quietly transferred into Tiffany’s league. It’s less competitive, less growth opportunity, but at least she’s back to smiling when she gets back from practice, Nick makes some pretty blocks and makes some dirty blocks and it’s not ideal but it’s what they have for the moment. She’s the best skater on the team by far, and she gets the ice time to reflect that, settles in with a partner who has her back. She ends up standing out even more than she did on her old team but the positive vibe of it brings her out of her shell a little more.

At least she’s on the ice. Nick doesn’t have to play competitively but they expect her to finish up her commitment.

It’s late February, only a few weeks into what the NHL can salvage of 1994/95 season, when a ticker pops up across the bottom of the evening’s programs.

Nick’s already getting ready for bed, but they call her and Tiffany down so they can sit in front of the TV and watch a Nordiques game (the _Nordiques_ , John would roll over in his grave if he had one) as a whippet-thin girl takes her place between the pipes, playing relief for an injured Jocelyn Thibault.

 _Woman_. It’s no knock on Patrice Roy, John has two daughters and is trying very hard to not screw this up, but there’s something very young-looking and vulnerable about how her slight frame fills out her pads, like she’s playing dress up. Then the camera pans in on Roy’s face and the eyes behind the newfangled Kevlar mask are nothing but professional determination, a white-blue stare that borders on creepy when she somehow senses the camera and focuses directly into the lens, scrutinizes the scrutinizers with a glare.

Any thought about her not being prepared for this flies out of John’s head in that second.

Tiffany squeals, clapping her hands, but Nick just goes stock still. John has to watch her shoulders closely to see if she’s even _breathing_ , totally absorbed as Roy accepts a pat on the shin from one of her defensemen and then stretches into a strange, low crouch that looks almost like Glenn Hall, but not.

Roy doesn’t record the win even though she makes a save on all 9 shots she faces. Since Thibault was on ice for the go-ahead goal the win is his. It doesn’t look like that matters at all to the team, who line up to congratulate Roy at the end, slapping her back and bumping helmets.

After that there’s no avoiding Nords games. Nick starts stalking their schedule when she hears at practice that Roy is scheduled to start one of their next home games, she watches the pregame and then flicks the TV off when Roy isn’t first on the ice. And their family has been – and always will be, _dammit_ – Oilers fans, but they stay up late to watch the East Coast feed when it finally happens because Nick just _lights up_ when she talks about it. She’s off the couch and cheering when the final seconds tick off the board, when Roy comes out of it with 65 minutes under her belt and the first woman to record a full game in the NHL.

Roy doesn’t celebrate with the rest of the team, just shakes her head at the score and skates into the dressing room. It’s clear in that second that she’s gonna be a force to be reckoned with in a few years.

Some people are leaders and some people are only comfortable going where paths already exist. Nick wouldn’t have gone where she did if Manon Rheaume and Patrice Roy hadn’t been the ones to go there first. But now that the path exists Nick is more than happy to follow, more than happy to know that there’s some sort of future for her in hockey, even if she decides it’s in rec leagues and on weekends. The important thing is that hockey has a place for her; Nick just has to decide where exactly she wants that place to be.

\\\

Nick stays in Tiffany’s league the next four years, and when she looks at them seriously and announces that she’s ready to go back to her old league neither of them question her. John fills out the paperwork and Lynda drives her to practice and that’s that.

If anything the kids are even _more_ intense, more laser focused and conscious of the differences between Nick and them. But Nick is different, too. She’s more settled, she’s put on five inches in the intervening years and she’s still thin but it’s a wiry, tough muscle under there. She focuses on the game, on moving up level by level, and some people think it’s short sighted to only be looking one step ahead but it’s what Nick needs to be able to move forward at all.

“No pressure,” John makes sure to tell her before every season, and Nick just keeps her head up and goes into it.

Then Steve Beirnes happens.

Nick is fifteen, she’s been quietly coasting through the league for the past five years. She’s started looking into trade schools and universities like she’s been told she’s supposed to, and she hasn’t even _tried out_ the past couple years, just accepts the team they put her on without a word. She’s still extremely good, and the intervening years have shown the world that women can have permanence in the NHL, but Nick is still getting shuttled off to single letter teams because the spark isn’t there. She has no interest in higher level hockey because higher level hockey has not been kind to her, and then she goes to her first practice with Steve and comes out of it tight jawed and _fierce_ , with a glint in her eyes that they haven’t seen before.

She starts going to practice early, and coming off the ice late, and she’s _grinning_ when she does. Nick is playing like she did when she was a little kid, joyful and eager and _better_ than she had been.

“Steve makes it fun, y’know?” she says after practice one day, her eyes fever bright and a smile all over her face. “Like, hockey is _hard work_ , right? But it’s also a _game_ and it’s supposed to be fun.” Nick starts bringing the cheerful goofiness from her life into the rink and everything integrates; it comes together and it clicks.

“I feel really lucky,” Nick admits one day, tying her laces as tight as she can. “To have this chance.”

“Dude, he’s been scouting you for years,” Nick Bryson says. He’s Nick(2) on the team, partially because Nick is older and also because Nick is bigger, and so she decides who gets top billing.

“So?”

Nick(2) snorts, like everyone has gotten this except her. “So it ain’t luck, Nick. It’s you being good.”

He doesn’t sound disgruntled when he says it, doesn’t make that face like a bitter lemon, and Nick blinks at him for an embarrassing stretch of time before she says “Oh, well. Thanks.”

He rolls his eyes at her, and Nick tries to hide the flush that heats her ears for a second.

Steve Beirnes believes in Nick, knows what she’s capable of and pushes her to that and then beyond it. That gives Nick the confidence it takes to give herself over to hockey again.

\\\

It’s not a hockey party, which explains why she’s curled up on the couch with half a cup of lukewarm beer and no one to talk to. This is one of Tiffany’s parties, because “ _God_ Nick, you need to meet people who aren’t on the hockey team!” and Nick knows plenty of people at school who aren’t on the hockey team, thank you very much. She just likes hanging out with the hockey team because it helps team bonding and it doesn’t take much effort since she already knows all of them.

She knows she has the emotional maturity of a limpet and she’s completely, 100% okay with that.

Nick finds the couch where the video game playing is happening, because there’s always that couch if you know where to look, and insinuates herself with the other players. She ends up spanking most of them, enough that they start to wander away after a while. When someone drops onto the couch next to her with enough force to send her beer rippling like something out of Jurassic Park Nick’s first instinct is to throw the controller at them blind and ask if they’re done crying and want a rematch.

“Uh, not exactly.” She’s _beautiful_ , clear eyes and a wicked smirk, and she tucks her long legs under herself so she can turn and watch Nick closer. Nick's been fighting sports-related acne since she hit puberty, her hair is all over the place and she's too tall to ever qualify as anything other than gawky, and maybe she’s a little insecure about all of those things. Nick ducks her head, but the newcomer just smiles and rests her hand on Nick's knee, the touch electric. “I kinda wanted to talk.”

Nick’s stupidly at a loss for words, and a little worriedly turned on.

“I’m Angela. Ang.”

“Nick,” she offers after a second, after her silence threatens to start tilting from ‘dazed’ into ‘creepy’. She fumbles the controller, almost spills her drink, and somehow comes out with “I can totally beat you at this game, though.”

“Cool.” Ang smiles, and Nick’s a _goner_. “So, best of three?”

They end up talking all through the game, and Nick kicks her ass but Ang doesn’t seem to care, because Nick ends up walking Ang out to her car anyway. When Ang gets into her car she kisses Nick and gives Nick her number.

That’s really all it takes for her to fall loopy, head-over-heels in love.


	2. Chapter 2

Nationwide Arena is jam packed, it smells like anticipation and too much cologne, and Nick _can’t leave her jacket alone_.

“Stop that.” Ang slaps her hand away from her suit, buttoning it with finality and tucking her tie. “You’ll wrinkle it.”

Nick told Ang she didn’t have to come. Ang pulled on her most intimidating heels and came anyway.

Nick had stopped inviting her parents the second time she was eligible for the draft, and now this is _it_. She’s shouldered the embarrassment and disappointment of walking out with nothing to show for it enough times, she doesn’t really want their well-meaning support this time. It’s gotten too hard to put up a cheerful façade in front of them, when they want the world for her. 

Nick’s been around for long enough, she’s not in the front office but she knows how it works. There’s a risk that comes with signing a defenseman like her. Forwards are making a strong go of it, and goalies are almost accepted at this point, but aside from Letang and Ruggiero in the East — and Angela’s _always_ been an anomaly, the first for her position and thought too old for the jump — defensemen are still a large _?_ on the page as far as a lot of organizations are concerned. 

Analysts make a lot of noise about physicality, about injury and longevity and risk versus rewards. Nick has always suspected Kris Letang’s impressive hospital bills are due to some sort of curse, but there’s no graceful way to work “to the best of my knowledge I have never pissed off an evil queen” into her sales pitch. Nick’s got her game going in Chilliwack, leading the League’s defensemen in goals, she’s wearing the _A_ , and that’s still not a guarantee of anything.

Maybe, if she were in a different place, then the numbers might be enough. Maybe. But Nick’s right where she is, she is _who_ she is, and she has to plan her career around reality.

Not getting drafted isn’t a death sentence for her career, but it’s a bump she’d rather avoid. It’s bad enough most teams are already looking at her and seeing “slow growth investment” when what they want is immediate payouts, she doesn’t want to add “free agent” to the list.

So Nick’s got a fresh suit, her hair’s done up and her tie is straight and she’s getting close to panicking out of her _mind_.

“You got this,” Ang repeats for the 15th time, pats her shoulder and then lets Nick lean on her for a moment, for all that she’s about six inches shorter even in heels. 

Ang’s got a weird chip on her shoulder where she just keeps _believing_ in Nick, and Nick appreciates the support, but. But sometimes she’s not sure she really appreciates the support.

Nick doesn’t go in the first round. That’s fine, she expected that. There’re a lot of talented 18 year olds out there, and Nick’s not actually delusional enough to think she’ll go before Kane or Voracek. She sits in the stadium with Ang at her side, squeezes her hand, and waits not so patiently.

In the end day one is a dud. She knew that, but it’s still painful, in that part of herself where the little girl who’d been rejected by her team lives.

“We’ve got tomorrow,” Ang promises Nick with a kiss, nails scratching at her scalp in an effort to comfort her.

“Maybe I should start looking at trade school again,” Nick mumbles as she changes that night, letting out a sigh of relief as she slips out of her bra and can _breathe_. She scrubs through her hair, breaking through the gel and letting it spike and spiral like it normally does. “Something with my hands, y’know?”

Ang looks up from sifting through their luggage, searching out her toothbrush. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean. I’ve thought about it.” She drops onto the bed, shucking her shoes and socks before starting on her belt. “Something like plumbing or carpentry, something where I can _see_ what I created.”

Ang watches her, the way she does when she suspects Nick’s telling her what she wants to hear instead of what’s actually on her mind, things like ‘no, I’m not drinking’ or ‘the jacket wasn’t that expensive’. It’s the look she gives Nick when she’s been _caught_. 

And like Nick always does she talks herself even deeper into it. “I think it’d be nice.”

Ang pops out of the bag with her toothbrush in hand, gesturing in a way that makes it look much more menacing than a toothbrush has any right to be. “Nick, you need to do what you love. Life’s too short to do anything else. But don’t make excuses why what you love shouldn’t be hockey. I can handle this.” 

It feels wrong, and ridiculous, and Nick feels ashamed to be held by such an insecurity, but sometimes when she watches Ang – even now, even with all the support and understanding – all she can focus on is how Ang deserves better than this, and how selfish Nick feels sometimes when loving Nick involves supporting her through all of this.

Ang would be the first to say that just because they’re in love doesn’t mean that Nick has any say in what Ang _deserves_. But she feels it anyway.

Nick’s not a big name. She’s not a legend like Patrice Roy, or a second coming like Sydney Crosby. She’s never made a name for herself that makes people sit up and take notice; she’s a non-entity. Better than most but not all, solid and middle of the road where nothing’s given. She’s not promised any sort of happy ending at the end of the line, and Ang is there regardless of how it ends.

That . . . probably counts as a happier ending than most people could hope for.

“Hey,” she says as they slip into bed, opening her arms for Ang to curl up against her. “Worst comes to worst we can always start being strippers.”

“I’d be great at it. You’d scare someone.” Ang flicks the lights off and leaves Nick to wonder what the hell she meant by _that_.

\\\

The draft is a bust and Nick comes out of it more heartbroken than she thought she would be. Ang holds her hand as they walk out and tells her terrible jokes and just generally acts like the strongest person Nick’s ever known. They go out with some of the other newly minted free agents and Nick gets blindingly drunk and says some things about the NHL that Ang won’t repeat the next day. When the hangover disappears they pack up and go back home. But now that it’s over Nick’s surer than ever that it’s not gonna be the end. She’s gonna keep playing and she’s gonna keep her head up and see how far grinding can go.

Nick proposes a week after the draft, because hell and high water won’t change the fact that she’s got Ang and Ang has her and that’s what matters.

She told herself she’d wait until they were settled, until she had a place and a plan, before she asked Ang to sign on for a lifelong commitment to the craziness. Now that doesn’t seem so important.

Ang cries, beautiful tears that turn her face pink and blotchy and turns her blue eyes red. And then she says yes.

And just like that the draft goes back to mattering not at all, because together they have this world in the bag.

\\\

Nick’s almost over it, almost past the nerves that come with having a hat in the ring when the phone rings. Then all bets are off, and the beer nearly ends up on the ceiling, floor, table, couch, and probably Ang. 

She fumbles her phone for a couple seconds, nerves making her clumsy, and it’s more luck than her awesome coordination that ends with her thumbing the phone to answer it. “Hi, Bob,” she says. Speakerphone is making her voice sound all anxious and shit. Stupid microphone. “What sort of new info has come up?”

Ang looks concerned, and even though she’s focusing on the TV there’s a sharp slash between her eyebrows. Nick can’t do anything to soothe it beyond offering her a thumbs up and a grin, goofy and hopefully sincere. Ang ducks her head with a laugh. It’s never been particularly easy for her, any of this hockey stuff, and Nick would love for that to change. 

“I can confirm that you have an offer on the table, from the Columbus Blue Jackets. I know that’s not exactly what you were looking for but it _is_ fair market value.”

Nick can’t complain; she’s got a contract offer and that’s more than she expected back when she was 8 and ready to tell hockey to go fuck itself in not so many words. She hates the phrase ‘late bloomer’ in hockey as much as she did when she was a kid waiting for her boobs to come in (21 years and still waiting), but she’s a pretty classic example of it from all indications, a slow but steady progress towards something she’d never imagined she could have back when she was a kid who wanted to give it all up.

“Send me the offer sheet,” she says, holding the shake out of her voice. Ang looks stunned too, staring at Nick like there’s a yeti behind her and she’s not sure if she should be grabbing a camera or bashing it with a frying pan. “But it’s probably a yes.”

Ang hugs her so tight she can barely breathe.

\\\

Nick’s mom is incoherent when she gets going enough to call home, and Nick really tries to rein it in with “It's not the NHL yet, Mom. They just have my rights, I'll probably be sent to their affiliate —” but her mom's a _mom_. She's burbling words about how proud she is, what a shock – gee, _thanks Mom_ – how she’s going to call the entire extended family to let them know and _has Nick called Tiffany yet_. 

Nick sighs, palms at her head. Tiffany is working her way through college with a degree in something smart and complicated sounding and has student loans out the ass, so she probably has more important things on her plate than worrying about Nick’s absolutely ridiculous problems. Nick owes her a couple semesters, if she’ll take it.

She can’t actually say that to their mom, so Nick only gets as far as “Not y—” before Lynda is just _gone_ , racing off to call Nick’s sister while her dad grunts into the phone, a masculine snort of approval.

“So I take it you did good?” he asks, voice scratchy.

Sounds like he might still be smoking, which pisses Nick off a little, but nothing she’s tried has worked so far. She’s not stooped to potential grandchild ransoming yet. “Columbus Blue Jackets,” she says, which earns her a low whistle of approval.

“Oilers would’ve been better.”

They’re both die-hard Edmonton fans, which is why “hey, I wanted a chance to win the Cup before I _die_ ,” comes out softer, with a giggle.

“This is our year,” her dad shoots back, on rote, and Nick can hear her mom yell “Not if it’s between them and Nick!” in the background.

“What Mom said. Not that I'll be in the NHL first year anyway.”

Her dad is quiet for a few seconds, which warns her that something sentimental is about to happen. “It’ll happen. We always knew you had what it took, Nick.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She sounds wearier that she intended to. It’s between that and crying.

Nick signs with the Columbus Blue Jackets the next day. Then they pack up and move to Syracuse.


	3. Chapter 3

The Falcons are hosting Portland, and on paper it looks like a tough game. They’re going home/home with the Pirates, and everyone’s determined to win this one in front of the Springfield crowd before immediately hopping a plane for Oregon.

Nick’s on the ice for the opening face-off. It makes her want to look up all her former teammates and mail them tickets to some of her home games, with her regards.

She’s not a smug person, except for those moments when she really, really is.

The game takes off almost immediately, a quick pace fueled by the young legs of the Portland offense, and Nick’s racing, her lungs burning and her legs pumping. She doles out a beauty of a hit halfway through the first, one that rattles through her bones and nestles in her teeth, sweeps the puck to Martin and then dedicates herself to dogging her opposing number.

Nick feels the hit coming just a second before it connects, a check that hits too close to the boards, too late to stop and it lands with the force of a freight train tossing her into the boards. She goes down awkwardly, shoulder jamming up under her as she rolls to protect her neck, the opposing defenseman essentially riding her into the wall. 

She remembers looking as she went down, the absent thought of _huh, that’s not supposed to bend that way_ going through her mind, even as she tries to push herself up and _can’t_.

First it’s adrenaline and endorphins doing their thing, leaving a strangely empty feeling where her shoulder should be. Nick hears the whistles and she’s not sure if it’s real or if she’s imagining them. She feels pretty disconnected; it’s entirely possible she’s hallucinating all of this, from the game to the sick crunch of her shoulder. 

“Gambler?” She looks up into the rugged, earnest face of Ryan Craig. They must have halted play after all, the universe is not cruel enough to make her hallucinate Ryan. “What’s up?”

She rolls upright and immediately regrets her life choices when gravity pulls on her arms and her shoulder starts a wailing, fire engine roar of pain. Ryan’s voice feels far away when it fades back in, and there’re spots in the edge of her vision as she reaches across her body, cradling her screaming arm as best she can. It eases the pain.

Nick tries to smile at him, but judging from Ryan’s expression she fails at it. “I think I broke my fucking shoulder,” she says and to her perpetual embarrassment she sounds mostly confused, and a little betrayed, like she’s caught her shoulder in a lie or something. “Is that even possible?”

“Can you skate?”

Now that’s just insulting, and her face must tell him as much because he holds both hands up. “Okay, okay, I had to ask. We’re gonna get you going. Don’t move too sudden.”

Nick gets onto her skates without jostling her shoulder, cradles her arm against her body and growls at Ryan every time he tries to help her with this extremely simple task. “There’s nothing wrong with my _legs_ ” she grumbles when Ryan gives her a little nudge as they hit the bench, and he immediately breaks for the bench while she waddles back to the trainer’s rooms.

George is waiting for her, a towel over his shoulder and heavy-duty scissors in his hands. That seems bad. “Heya, Nick,” he offers, waving her towards a bench. “You’re looking a little pale. You feel okay?”

Nick’s always pale, she’s Canadian. She must look like death for him to comment on it. “Dizzy,” she decides after a second, cold shivers settling between her shoulder blades while the shoulder itself keeps up its alert.

George has to cut her uniform off; Nick can’t move her shoulder without a fresh burst of pain that leaves her nauseous and near to throwing up. The joint is already hot and swollen, a bright red tracing black and purple in splotches. She sits there and breathes while he works, and it’s not until the word “hospital” breaks through her fog that she responds.

“Yeah, you’ll need to head to the hospital to be sure, but it looks like a tear.” 

Nick swallows, and tries not to start panicking inside her own head. “Best case?”

“No surgery, a few weeks. With reconstruction you’re looking at a few months. The hospital will be able to tell you more.” He says it so simple, so _clinical_ , like he’s not issuing a death knell to the rest of the season, like this isn’t putting her _career_ in jeopardy if she can’t play. She can't afford to become a statistic, another knock against the longevity of female defensemen. 

It’s not his fault; Nick still starts up a running monologue of every curse she can think of until she’s locked up securely in the ambulance. It helps her feel a little better.

\\\

Ang meets her at the hospital. She cups Nick’s face, kisses her like she’s barely been holding it together, so very gentle and so very scared.

“Oh my god, Nick, are you okay? I thought you had a concussion or something.” It's the tone Ang always uses when Nick manages to get herself banged up and she rests their foreheads together, her hair forming a curtain around them. Ang starts shaking, tremors up and down her shoulders that rattle through her fingers.

“It’s my shoulder.” Nick’s a douche. The absolute biggest douche. Her pregnant wife is shaking apart and it’s because Nick is the worst at communication. “Went down funny, but I'm gonna be okay. I’m so sorry.”

“You feel better now?” When Nick nods Ang smacks her on the hip. 

“Hey! Ow!”

“Don’t _do_ that to a pregnant woman, Nick! If our baby’s stuck with a scream face it’s because I’ve been worrying about you the whole way here.”

She nods sagely. “Sounds like he’s gonna look like me, then.” 

Ang kisses her again, but with a laugh – half amusement, half relief. “God, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I’m probably out the rest of the season.” Nick once again vies with herself for the title of Queen of Saying the Worst Things Possible. Ang’s face falls. 

“They can’t . . . you’ll still have a spot, they can’t cut you because you’re hurt.”

“Yeah, no, they can’t. But afterwards . . .”

“Once you heal up you’ll be back to your usual play. A shoulder’s not gonna keep you down forever.”

Nick smiles, places a hand on Ang’s wrist and keeps it there until it’s time to go, a pocket full of prescription drugs and an appointment for surgery in a few days, strict orders to rest and ice and get the swelling down. 

\\\

Ang is soft, rounded in all sorts of new and interesting places, and she’s sicker than Nick has ever seen a living human be. It’s kinda gross, and the fact it’s their little peanut causing this makes Nick feel betrayed in some confused part of her brain.

The bed dips when Ang crawls back in, and she’s brushed her teeth but the scent of _sick_ still hovers around her as she groans and curls up against Nick’s chest, burrowing into her and breathing heavily across Nick’s chest. Nick’s stopped getting up with her when she’s sick. Ang doesn’t appreciate the audience, and the most Nick’s able to do is hold up her hair with one hand and keep up a running monologue that Ang can't even appreciate. So Nick’s been banned from the bathroom in the hopes that at least one of them can get some sleep.

It doesn’t work, but it’s a nice gesture.

“What made us think this was a good idea?” Ang moans, leaving a wet spot on the front of Nick’s shirt. 

Nick cradles her good arm around her. “It’d be good for me to have someone my age to play with, plus we owe it to humanity.”

Ang laughs, and Nick flushes warm until Ang groans. “Fuck, it makes me nauseous to laugh.”

They’ve seen the doctor about this. Several doctors. Turns out some babies show their presence by making their mother as sick as a dog, which seems a little ungrateful to Nick. But their Ob/Gyn is monitoring it, and until then all Ang can do is stay hydrated, eat what she can, and ride out this phase.

“Maybe I should have the next one,” Nick muses one day, watching Ang approach her breakfast with the wariness of a prey item.

Ang stops her staring contest with her cereal, blinks at Nick a few times. “One, you’d go crazy. Two, _next one_?”

“Well, at least I offered?”

Ang makes a face at her.

It was never _really_ up for debate. Nick’d joked that they’d never be able to find maternity pants for a six foot six defenseman, but what it came down to was ice time, was Nick needing to be out there and playing because when she’s not playing there’s a part of her that goes missing.

She doesn’t enjoy being injured. But Nick's trying to keep it together and make the best of this. She's helping Ang around the house, patching stuff that needs patching and just generally getting in the way until she’s banished to the couch or the bedroom. It’s not what Nick wanted to be doing at this point of the season but it’s fine. It’s okay. She’s dealing. Mostly.

Playing video games with one arm is proving a challenge, and Nick might be getting a little bit too invested in her Sims in the meantime. 

“Hey, do you think we should get a dog?” she calls into the living room, scrolling through the options listed for adoption.

“We’re swamped!” Ang looks like she might answer that by delivering a puppy of her own. “You have _got_ to be . . . oh, you mean your Sims.”

“Yeah. I think they have enough money that one of them can stay home with it to train in positive traits.” Nick picks the one that looks most likely to be cute when it grows up and completes the adoption. 

Ryan and Martin show up later that night and drag Nick around town to some dimly lit bars. She can’t help but feel like Ang has something to do with that.

\\\

Ang wants a girl, and Nick wants a girl for her – someone Ang can cuddle and dress up and spoil rotten. Nick’s pretty sure any girl of theirs is gonna be a massive Mommy’s girl, but deep inside Nick wants a boy. She wants someone to teach and train and throw over her shoulder, and she’s a little scared of a girl. 

Boys, Nick gets. She’s afraid a daughter will eventually leave her behind.

\\\

Nick still goes to all the Falcon's home games, suit and tie, waits out the final results because if she’s not gonna be out there she’s at least gonna be _seen_ , reminding everyone who she is and what she does when she’s out there.

It feels like it’s never gonna happen, and Nick’s climbing the walls with inactivity, but eventually her arm _does_ come out of the sling. It’s just in time for the Falcons to miss the playoffs by one spot with Nick watching uselessly from the sidelines, which is less good.

It actually sucks worse to watch the team lose knowing she could actually be making a difference out there than it does to lose when she’s on the ice. It’s more helpless.

Once the season’s officially over she and Ang head back to Canada for the summer. Parker’s a proper Canadian citizen when he finally makes his appearance, almost two weeks late and the most absurdly perfect thing Nick has ever had the pleasure of being stood up by. He’s so tiny Nick worries about breaking him somehow and refuses to be left alone with him for about three weeks, until Ang invokes cabin fever and goes out with some of her friends for the evening. Nick successfully feeds, burps, and bathes Parker (even though he looks a little disgruntled to be taking a bottle) and falls asleep with Parker on her chest, nestled into the space between her breasts. She wakes up when he slaps her in the face with one of his restless baby arms, pudgy with fat, and she realizes she’s actually not half bad at this mothering thing. It’s an unexpected pleasure.

Plus, Nick is the bomb at playing peekaboo. Ang says it’s because she never gets bored with it.

Nick gets to spend a lot of time with Parker while she waits for the season to start. A part of her really begins to _understand_ the idea of wanting to stay home with him, keep an eye on his every moment and be present and participating in all of them. It’s a little addicting, the way he slowly learns to track her face, the way he roots at Ang when he’s hungry and clings to Nick at bath time. She can get how you’d want to be part of that.

She also knows, with absolute certainty, that while she’d die for her son there’s no way she’s cut out for staying home with him. The new season is coming up, they’re packing to head back to Springfield while the NHL mucks and mires its way through a lockout, and Nick can’t wait to get back on the ice and test out her new, awesome shoulder. She’s jumpy and itchy and absolutely crazy with the need to get back to work.

The AHL season starts and the NHL lags behind, but her shoulder feels good as new, her checks are solid, and Nick plays like a woman possessed.

\\\

Columbus is different. It’s bigger and louder – the arena, the crowds, the cannon. It’s living in a motel even though she’s in the middle of a home stand, and Skyping home every night so her baby doesn’t forget her face. It’s not home, but it’s brilliant and exhausting and terrifying and everything Nick’s ever wanted out of her life.

It’s a short call up, just a few games, and she misses Parker with a gaping emptiness, but when she’s out on the ice it’s worth it, all of it. It’s perfect like a sheet of fresh ice and new blades are perfect, made to fit and compliment, and when she’s sent back to Springfield with a couple games under her belt all she can think about is getting back there, making a spot and keeping it. Nick buckles down to fight to get that chance back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The medical bits in here are entirely based on what I could google, supplemented with my own experiences when I broke my leg last year. So yeah, I am not making any claims to their accuracy, and hopefully it's not terrible.


	4. Chapter 4

When the phone starts going off Nick knows it’s gonna be bad news, but she picks up the phone anyway. Because one thing she’s always prided herself on is that she’s got a resilient personality or some shit.

“No joy?” Ang watches as Nick drops the pen onto the table with a defeated grunt.

“Nashville. Strong d-core, good record with the playoffs, and no chance in hell I’ll break opening night roster.”

Ang arches an eyebrow in that way she knows Nick hates, the authoritative way. “Their words, or yours?”

Nick offers her wife a slow, almost reptilian blink. “They have _Shea Weber_ on the roster.”

Ang waves that off like it’s not a big deal, when it _is_ a big deal, and Ang _knows_ it’s a big deal. 

Nick goes back to looking over the mess of free agency paperwork that has bred all over the coffee table, beginning to function as coasters and emergency coloring books. Her eyes are starting to cross, and there’s this one note she made – on the offer sheet from the Panthers, just as well – that she can’t even read anymore. It’s like her brain switched into some other language when she wrote it down, and now it’s weirdly useless to her. “This is a nightmare.”

“Help me get Parker’s stuff together,” Ang says instead, going into their son’s room and just expecting Nick to follow.

Nick waits a few seconds before she does. It’s the principle of the thing.

“It’s nothing personal, y’know?” Nick murmurs, hesitating in the door before Ang’s impatient wave gets her picking up another one of Parker’s toys and tossing it into the toy bin that he steadfastly refuses to learn the use of. “But I’m not uprooting the whole family just to end up in the minors with a new team.”

“What if you get a real shot at the NHL with a new club? Even if it takes a bit?” 

“I have a shot with the NHL here.” It was only a few games during a lockout shortened season, but it was something. Nick’s fingers play with the edges of Parker’s fire truck, turning it over in her hands. Almost subconsciously she starts making engine noises with it, rolling the wheels across her palm.

Ang shrugs, putting a stuffed toy into the bed with Parker, tucking it close to his feet and smoothing the blanket over him. “I’m just saying. There have got to be teams out there who’re hurting for defensemen, who’d give you a good shot at some real playing time.”

“Hurting more than _Columbus_?” 

“It could happen,” Ang replies imperiously, tossing another toy into the bin. 

There’s some defending of the team that should be done; Columbus is _her team_ dammit, but in the end Ang has a good point. “There’s a reason I keep answering the phone,” she admits after a moment.

“And you do a damn fine job of phone answering.” Ang presses a kiss to her forehead, taking the truck out of Nick’s hand and finally just putting it away herself. 

Nick wraps up the day with another call, dutifully making notes on the pad and trying to not pay too much attention to the weary angle of the letters.

\\\

Nick gets the call halfway through the Frenzy. She’s been making origami artwork out of the offer sheets, which pretty much consists of going over them, balling them up, panicking, smoothing them out, and then trying to make it look intentional. Ang’s taken Parker out to the park so that at least one of them can get some air and exercise. 

She’s reached the level of boredom where she’s Googling the most efficient paper airplane designs when the phone starts ringing and interrupts her search. 

“Hey, Bob. What’s the happenings?” Nick’s casual, even a little flippant, expecting more reassurances that he’s gotten her name out there, maybe a slight tweak from one of the existing offers.

“Nick, I’ve gotten a new offer across my desk. It’s a conditional offer, built in two-way with the AHL, but you’re looking at a small bump in paygrade.”

It’s nothing to sneeze at, and the idea of a two-way makes her skin itch but her logic bumps pride out of the way and admits it’s pretty fair. She can at least hear it out. “Who’s it from?”

“Joe Sakic, representing the Colorado Avalanche.”

Bob might have some other things to say; they’re lost in the roar of blood in her ears, the sudden influx of adrenaline that’s great in a game but doing shit-all for the current situation.

The line’s been quiet for a while; Nick should probably be negotiating or something. “Okay, I’ll talk with him.”

“I remember this process being a lot simpler, in my day.” Nick hasn’t exactly memorized Sakic’s voice, it’s not like she’s heard him speak more than a few words, but there’s something about the dry good humor that catches her attention immediately. He sounds like everyone’s no-nonsense, deeply responsible professor.

Nick swallows. “Hello, Mr. Sakic.”

“Hello, Ms. Holden.” He sounds warm, his voice soothing and confident. “Your name came across my desk with Craig Billington’s suggestion. I take it you know him?”

Vaguely. Sort of. Some sort of front office position obviously. She’s pretty sure she’s spoken to him some time in the past year, he seemed very . . . goalie-like, excitable and quirky. “Development?” she pulls out of her memory.

Sakic makes a pleased little sound. “Good guess,” he murmurs, and Nick does not blush, because it’s not like he can see her. “Craig’s had a bit of an eye on you for a few seasons now, and he likes what he sees. Says you know your position; what role you play on the ice and you deliver on it. He also says you learn quick.”

“Um. Thank you, that means a lot.”

“Now, our scouts have some thoughts as well. They say you’re a little slow on the shot, you rely on footwork instead of hits maybe a bit too much considering your size, and you’ve had a history with injuries.”

Fucking scouts, “a shoulder, just for part of the season . . .”

“But Craig says you’re a work horse. You start early and stay late, and you learn. You’re better each season he’s been watching you.”

Nick tries not to sound bitter. “Except 2012.”

His laugh is warm, like something comforting and sincere, built from shared experiences. “Has anyone told you my snow blower story? Injuries happen, just gotta bounce back next season. Your projections say you can.”

Sakic’s voice fades to a low drone in the back of her head, a comforting buzz underneath the thoughts that are fighting for the forefront of her brain. It’s everything from childlike awe to cold hard calculations, racing through her mind and fighting for attention. Probably she should be listening to the speech, but aside from some names and dates it sounds a lot like every other pitch. Every team says they’re going to win the Stanley Cup within a decade; the difference is in _how_ they say it.

Sakic says it like a foregone conclusion.

“Thank you, Ms. Holden. I know you have a little one to get back to; I appreciate your considerations.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sakic. For the call and the. The interest.” Nick gropes for her internal script. It’s painfully out of reach. “I’ll be having Bo – my agent — contact you once I’ve made a decision.”

He doesn’t tell her to call him Joe; that comes later, after she signs. 

_If_ , she reminds herself.

Thankfully Sakic drops out of conference before Nick manages to embarrass herself. Nick, being Nick, manages to do it about four seconds after that.

“Holy shit that was Joe Sakic.”

That . . . wasn’t exactly what she was expecting to come out. Ang should really be handling this; she’s the reason Nick’s current contract didn’t boil down to a box of Kraft Dinner and a hearty ‘Atta boy’, because Nick’s a little bit like a puppy when it comes to playtime.

Bob sighs, amused. “Don’t you want to wait for the offer sheet?”

Nick fires back with, “you do know who I’d be playing under, right?”

He does; of course he does. The whole, insular universe of hockey knows. It even cracked ESPN, and hockey earning a mention during the off season is almost unheard of. Hell, Nick wouldn’t be surprised if Lifetime did a special or something. 

Patrice Roy coming back to the NHL is big news on a lot of different fronts.

“Sakic did mention they wanted to play out some gambles this year. Shall I send over the offer?”

Playing out a few gambles feels like the sign Nick’s never been looking for. Her text to Ang just says _holy shit_.

_What’d I tell you?_ Against all logic Ang manages to sound smug.

\\\

Nick doesn’t warrant much more than the ticker and a neutral, if slightly puzzled, comment on the NHL Network’s coverage. She doesn’t get mentioned in the Hockey News Online except near the end of the article on the free agent signings, in the “other transactions” sidebar, doesn’t make it onto Hockey Night in Canada at all. Don Cherry doesn’t even have much to say about her, though in all fairness he’s too busy having kittens over whatever it is that Toronto thinks they’re doing. Maybe the tank’s dry after he vented all his Avalanche related rage at Pauley Stastny last year. Maybe he respects Sakic and Roy’s decision making. Maybe he’s learned a lesson about withholding judgment.

Maybe Nick can tour Denver on her flying pet pig.

It seems insane now, on a team billed flight to perform for Patrice Roy and the staff, how easily this could have not happened. How many times and chances there had been for Nick to pull out, to bail, leave hockey to the pros and go off to be a fucking plumber or something, like she always said she would.

Hockey was always something different, something special, not an obsession or a passion but something else entirely, and there’s a reason she’s still willing to put everything on awkward hold in order to keep chasing it.

“Oh! Hey! Holden! Nick Holden! Over here!”

Nick’s inside her own head and not expecting a pick-up so she blazes straight past Pauley Stastny, DU toque pulled low even in fucking 90 degree Denver weather, waving one hand and grinning.

In Nick’s defense, Pauley looks different with all her teeth in.

“Pauley,” she offers, off hand jammed in the pocket of her jeans and hips canted sideways. “Patty asked if I could meet you.”

“Nick. Uh. Holden.” Nick finally thinks to offer her hand and Pauley digs hers out of her jeans, shaking with one and grabbing Nick’s carry-on with the other. Apparently Denver has its shit together, at least enough to draft a participant rather than foist her off on a hired driver or leave her to her own devices. Pauley’s one of the higher profile forwards out there, partially because of her father and mostly because she’s solid and _good_.

“Nice to finally meet you.” Her hands are really rough. “Welcome to Denver. You got more bags coming?”

“Just the ones I checked.” Which . . . yeah.

Pauley just smiles that filled-in smile and gestures towards the baggage claim with her chin. “Cool, let’s get those and head out. I’m parked in the loading zone.”

Nick starts to tail her. “They let you do that?”

Pauley shrugs, maneuvering through the concourse to baggage. “RHIP.”

Nick’s used to weird hockey slang, but that’s a new one.

“Rank Has its Privileges.” Pauley shoots her another one of those goofy grins, the one that Nick swears belongs on Alfred E Neuman or something instead of this pixie of a hockey player. “But I don’t like to take advantage, so . . .” she shrugs, voice trailing off.

Nick walks a little faster.

She ends up in a wrestling match with her gear, one she’s losing, and it’s embarrassing to be losing to inanimate objects but no way she’s going to ask for help. Nick’s not gonna let the first task her teammate sees her doing look like she’s struggling, so she hauls them off the claim and loads herself up without a word.

Nick’s got about five inches on Pauley, she can handle it.

Halfway to the exit Pauley reaches out and slings Nick’s stick bag over her shoulders without a word, because Pauley’s been here, too.

Pauley ends up signing a spare hat she has in her back seat for the parking guard’s kid, flirting easily and laughing as Nick slips her stuff into the back of her SUV. She’s nice; Nick feels like they’ll get along, which is a relief considering how many press events they’ll probably have to do together if Nick stays with the team. Nick’s never needed to really think about that before; there aren’t many clubs fielding multiple women on their top lines, and the few that do have actual people whose job is to make sure they don’t become the team-within-the-team, some sort of novelty act that plays independent of their club. It helps that the Penguins have Crosby to off balance Letang; Syd does everything in her power to be as uninteresting as possible outside of the rink.

Pauley’s enthusiastic and a little weird, definitely off kilter in an appreciable way, like when she starts talking about this season of The Bachelor. It’s clear she wants Nick to be as emotionally invested in the ongoing drama of televised romance as she is, but Nick’s never been a huge TV person. Unless it’s cartoons.

“You’re staying at my place. I hope you like dogs. Copenhagen’s a sweetheart, you’ll love him. Paisley’s a pushy shit, mostly because Matt spoils him.” Pauley laughs a little, maneuvering the SUV one handed. “I guess everyone says their kid’s the best, anyway.”

Nick has her own _actual_ kid, and she’ll be the first to admit that Parker can be a nightmare sometimes. “I guess.”

Pauley’s a talker, keeps up a steady conversation with Nick that Nick can respond to about half of. She’s a little overwhelmed and a lot tired, and the altitude is making her nauseous. But it’s nice to see how human Pauley really is, how instantly comfortable she is with Nick, joking and teasing and never once offering any sort of advice.

Pauley’s place is in a neighborhood close to Pepsi Center, a honest to god house with a patio and a yard, not the leased apartment Nick’s currently occupying or the ceiling-less condo downtown that a lot of players select. It’s the sort of neighborhood families live in, people with kids and pets, people with a _future_ , and Nick is filled with a sudden, fierce desire to get something like this for her own family, something beautiful and permanent.

“Don’t let the dog jump on you,” is all Pauley says before Nick’s shins are assaulted by a blur of fur and yips, pricked ears and a permanently cheerful grin.

She drops her bags after a moment, reassured that Pauley’s dog is exactly as friendly as his owner, and crouches low so she can ruffle at his ears, stroke down his back to his frantically wagging tail. That earns Nick a sneaky doggy kiss across the cheek and a cheeky grin, paw placed up on her knee.

Pauley’s head appears at the top of the stairs. “Copenhagen, seriously, chill.”

“He’s cool.” Nick still wipes down her hands on her jeans as she stands, picking up her bags again. “I really appreciate you letting me stay here.”

“Patty thought that it’d be good for the new prospects to get to know some of the veterans, makes it easier to adjust to training camp and stuff. And trust me, you do _not_ want to stay with Edge. Who for some reason I can’t fathom was actually an option.” Pauley waves her off, ushering her into the room that is apparently now Nick’s.

The room is cheerful, yellow and white, a little makeup desk in the corner and an adjoining bathroom that smells like a Glade ad _looks_. Nick’s a little scared of messing it up, somehow. 

Pauley, it turns out, has the most aggressively feminine house in _existence_. It’s all coordinated colors and sleek lines, very designer, and it does not smell like a hockey player and her pads live there because Pauley excels at adulthood.

When Nick gets up the next morning she stumbles into the kitchen half asleep, and further cements her dope house guest reputation by staring at Pauley’s fancy, designer coffee maker and making faintly betrayed sounds until Pauley takes pity on her and brews some on Nick’s behalf. 

Nick’s halfway through inhaling a second cup before she’s capable of recognizing Matt Duchene, who’s eating scrambled eggs and veggies at Pauley’s counter and watching her with a mixture of amusement and deep concern. 

“Isn’t that hot?” he asks, which earns him a nod and a sincere “Ow” before Nick finishes chugging the cup anyway and stumbles to the bathroom to brush her teeth and whimper in private.

\\\

So apparently Matt and Pauley are a thing, like a been-together-since-Matt-was-drafted sort of thing. It’s kinda cute, they’re like the team’s little married couple. 

Nick’s strangely fascinated by the dynamic; she loves Ang, but she shudders to think about how they’d survive arguing play calls as well as whose turn it is to get up with Parker.

Somehow Matt and Pauley seem to make it work. Nick’s a little weirded out by it, honestly.

\\\

Nick has seen Roy and Sakic before, of course, especially back when she watched those early Nords games. But that was back in their playing days and never up close. When she waddles out of the dressing room on Pauley’s heels they’re _right there_ , scanning and observing. Sakic’s got a spot right on the visitor’s bench, pressed polo shirt and khakis, leaning on his forearms and as casually unassuming as she pictured him. He looks older, a little thinner in the hair and with weathered lines on his face, but it’s not hard to see evidence of the cool precision that marked him when he played. Nick’s seen him hit twine with a quarter inch to spare, sliding past the net on his hip with a defenseman sprawled on top of him.

Patrice Roy has apparently signed up to do the intimidating for the both of them. She’s shorter than Nick by a couple inches (and basically everyone except Erik Johnson is shorter than Nick, because Nick is 6’4” and quite possibly part Sasquatch) but there's something about her that's _overwhelming_ , leaning on her stick and scanning the team with those freaky intense eyes of hers. Roy’s wearing a ball cap, blonde hair whipped into a small pony tail, ice jacket and fitted track pants. She’s older than Sakic but there’s a fullness to her cheeks that gives her a bit of a baby face, making the lines crossing Sakic’s face look like he’s carrying the pressures for both of them.

Sakic is calm confidence. Roy is a hurricane of power.

Roy whistles with her teeth, makes a few guys jump with the sound, and then starts talking without waiting for them to silence themselves. “Awright. Welcome. For those who are here before, things will be different. If you are new, things will be very different.” Her voice is sharp and humorless, but she’s got this dimple that’s actually kind of appealing, Nick thinks. “I am Patrice Roy. I am your head coach. You don’t hafta call me coach; I am here to be a partner an I am in this with all of you. My door, you say, is always gonna be open.

“Some of you have not have good years. I want you to forget that. Last year does not matter, cause I believe in you right now. You are all hockey players; any of you can be roster if you play good an we like what we see this year. If I see problems, you will correct them. If you see problems you will come an talk to me, or any of my coaches. I am not perfect, no person is. Hockey is a game of mistake, an I make mistakes too. What defines us is how we gonna fix them.”

She taps her stick against the ice a few times to renew their attention before pointing the blade down the line. “Tim Army. Andre Tourigny. François Allaire. Dean Chynoweth. They say what I say; listen to them. Adam Foote will be working with us for training camp. Those of you who play for the Monsters, Dean tells you the same things; everything is the same, top down.”

The grin she gives them then is absolutely charming, an impish look that takes fifteen years off her face. “Okay, good. This session is watch an learn. Adam, please.”

She takes off, powerful strides, and they all hop the boards to follow.

\\\

It’s only day two of training camp and Nick’s pretty sure the team is already completely head-over-heels for Patrice. She certainly is. No doubt Footer is, which says something if even _Nick_ can see it. Patrice just treats her assistant with what looks like a mixture of ignorance and plain old ignoring, which tells the story better than it should.

“I think I have a crush on my coach.”

Ang _hmmms_ absently. “Well, you do have good taste.”

Nick has been struggling with this the past few days of training camp. “I don’t think you’re treating this with the seriousness it deserves.”

“Isn’t your coach married to your _other_ coach or something?”

“They’re divorced. That makes her fair market.” Nick shuffles some of Pauley’s stuff to the other side of the sink, because sudden teeth appearance is not something she’s looking to experience in the middle of the night again. She has to shove an unbelievable assortment of almost identical burgundy nail polish to the side to set her bag down. She’s never seen Pauley without burgundy nails. “How’s everything on the home front?”

“Let’s see. The baby is determined to make me hate even the _mention_ of beef, and Parker’s rejecting his big boy bed, even though he’s been in it for months, because he ‘hates the baby’ and everything is now ‘his’.”

Nick winces, because _ouch_. “I’m sorry?”

“We’ve instituted extra snuggle times. Your mom assures me this is normal.”

Looking back on some of the things she got into to try and get rid of Tiffany in the beginning . . . “Yeah, actually it kinda is.”

“Good job, Nick. We’re raising normal kids. Who would’ve guessed?”

When she stops cracking up enough to pull in a breath Ang even _sounds_ like she’s smiling warmly. “That’s why I’m not worried. No way Roy will ever want you if she hears you laugh.”

“She will totally want me for my gangly, sexy body. Babe, I’m the whole package.”

“Promise you won’t sign a pre-nup and we’ll talk.”

Matt actually wanders his way in to make sure Nick isn’t choking to death in the bathroom.


	5. Chapter 5

Nick comes off the ice late; it’s a habit she picked up in Chilliwack, and it’s paid off over the years. 

Nick’s worked her _ass_ off in training camp – she was a long shot to make the roster right off the bat, but she's not gonna roll over on it, either. She worked hard, she did what she do, and made it through the first round of cuts, then the second, then she started to hope. Then she gets called in and Patrice sits her down. Nick braces for the cut; Patrice has always done it in person and one-on-one. She respects her players too much to handle it any other way.

“I don’t know what you been told, Nick, but I’m thinking it’s a lot like what I been told.” Patrice rests her fingers flat on the desk, leaning forward a little. There’s a heat in her gaze, it looks like a challenge darting around in the back of her eyes. “The NHL is a long shot; you’re lucky to be where you are an that’s gotta be good enough cause it’s all you got. But, you’re here. I’m guessing you know it’s not luck that you are.

“I gotta be honest with you, cause I never lie to my players. You’re not on the opening roster, but I wanna keep you up here anyway. You play hard an the squad is better with you on it. I wanna push you, cause I believe with time you can get there. You got my word on that.”

The thing is, Nick was never supposed to make it to the NHL in the first place. Looking at Patrice she sees that same pronouncement only two decades earlier, sees the steel places that challenge created glinting back at her. They’ve seen the stats, lived through most of them. Nick loves hockey, but she’d always had a fallback position, something to do when hockey fell apart, because all the experts said this didn’t happen. 

Patrice Roy is as close to an expert on this sort of thing as you can get, and if she says it’s gonna happen Nick sees no reason to disbelieve her. One thing she’s learned to count on — Patrice is compassionate towards her players but she absolutely does not offer anything out of pity.

“Thank you,” Nick says, chin high, and Patrice offers her a smile that looks like nothing except skate blades leaving a scar through fresh ice.

So Nick does everything she can to keep the team in shape, pushes herself and pushes her teammates. It’s her job to defend and she’s not gonna let things be easy for them just because it’s practice. 

She drops into her stall in the mostly-empty dressing room, is sopping the sweat out of her hair when there’s the feeling of something intimidating entering the room. A quick glance down reveals some god-awful florescent red and yellow sneakers and Nick pops to her feet, trying not to loom over Patrice.

Patrice waves a hand at her. “Don’t let me bother you.” 

Her coach takes a seat on the bench next to her, waiting for Nick to relax and sit down again. Nick goes back to taking her gear off but she can’t stop casting looks over at Patrice, waiting to hear what she’s got ticking away in that brain of hers.

Patrice is quiet for nearly a minute before she finally speaks -- it would reek of hesitation from anyone else. Her voice, the one Nick’s used to responding to like it’s the Voice of God on the ice, has gotten softer and lost its boom. Patrice sounds like a normal person right then. “Have you ever play forward before?”

Nick pauses in tugging her skates off, sits up straight and pushes her hand through her hair. “Yeah. Uh, a few times, when I was a kid. Why?”

Patrice flashes her brilliant grin, the one that makes her look about ten and absolutely naughty. “I hope you would say no. Cause now you are starting Friday night in Dallas.”

Nick recovers the fumble of her glove admirably, considering. Her voice does not get off that easily, somewhere between a scream and a yodel. “ _AaaAAai . . .?_ ”

“I’m gonna sub you in for Jamie. If your gear is gonna need adjustment talk to Matt beforehand.” Patrice smiles, one of her lighting quick responses that suggests that something that isn’t really funny has never-the-less amused her greatly. She slaps Nick on the back; Nick rocks slightly. “Thanks, Nick. We need flexibility.” 

Nick swallows down her initial reaction, which was to yelp “what?” in a very undignified way, and stares at Patrice like she’s grown extra heads instead. “You’re welcome? Thanks? Sure?” 

Nick’s not sure if that’s good news or not. 

“Good luck,” Patrice offers her with another one of those smiles, sly and enigmatic. It makes Nick reconsider her previous stance re: Patrice Roy and Lying.

This isn’t at _all_ how she planned to make her NHL debut with the Avs.

\\\

There are four days to get ready, to practice and learn the system. Pauley’s there to help, of course. There’s not much chance Nick will ever play on Pauley’s line, partially because she’s really hoping to get a break into D soon, but mostly because there’s no way she’s forward-caliber enough to play in the top two lines. But Pauley skates with her, and so Matt skates with her by proxy, and they practice while Nick desperately tries to remind herself what it is forwards do. She sits in and watches tape, comes home to Ang who’s only partially joking when she pretends to not remember her, then goes back and starts all over. 

When Nick hits the ice for warmups she holds back and goes out with the forwards, gets her feet under her and starts picking up pucks and shooting, situating herself on the left wing with Cliche and Bordeleau, and she just practices.

That game doesn’t go anywhere. She’s short on ice-time since she's hanging out with the fourth line, and she’s not sure she really does much contributing beyond ‘is better than a blank spot on the ice’, but she must do well enough that Patrice is satisfied. She puts Nick into the lineup for the next game, before letting her roll into a defensive position the game after that.

After that Nick focuses on playing, on making every game better, and revels in the NHL.

\\\

It takes until November 11th, deep in the second with Washington, when Nick picks up the puck on a nice pass, gets a good look at Holtby, and just _fires_ it at him. Nick’s focused on the puck, and it still takes her a second, two, before the red goal light really hits her.

It hits at about the same time as her teammates dive-tackling her do.

It’s . . . It’s not the best moment in her life, but it’s close, it is _so close_ , and she starts screaming with more shock than she’d like to admit, bundled up between her teammates. Pauley takes off, because Pauley is the best, takes the puck from the linesman's hands and books it over to the bench to hand it over to Patrice and the staff. Nick wants that puck, wants to touch it and hold it and call it her precious, but she has to wait until after the game, after the _win_ , for Patrice to slap the puck into her hand, already decorated with masking tape. 

Nick’s in all of her sweaty, post-game glory, and she’s hugging Patrice before she realizes that’s what she’s doing. Patrice pats her back once and pulls away, not unkindly.

“Knew you had it in you.”

“Hell, _I_ didn’t.” Nick might be feeling a little hysterical.

“Sure you did. You do the work to get this far, eh?” Patrice winks at her. 

Nick _hadn’t_ been sure, though that would make a better story for her kids if she says she had been. Mostly she had been the right mix of skilled and lucky. Over the years she had lost fire and sleep and nearly lost hockey, but her parents were loath to let talent lie dormant, and they had driven her towards one more year, one last chance to play hockey before she gave it up. She’d found Ang, and Ang had been right there in the middle of Nick’s fan club, had given her what she needed to take that one last chance. Then they had Parker, with Carter on the way, and Nick wants nothing more than for them to be proud of her, to know that their mom will never, ever give up. Not if it's important. 

It’s not until Gabe crawls into her lap during the post game interview, when he curls up against her and pretends to fall asleep against her chest while the team drapes every piece of random shit they can find over her like she’s some sort of gangly Christmas Tree, that Nick looks around the room and thinks _I’m right where I belong_.

She could be in worst places, for sure.


End file.
